


cursed

by bungles77



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 'arthur morgan could relate', Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Insecurity, Sad, i was listening to heather and i was like, pls help him he deserves the best, purely just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25901905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bungles77/pseuds/bungles77
Summary: Why would she even want somebody like him? Whenever he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a sad bastard. He mused to himself if beauty reflected the person, as all he could see when he looked at himself was a beast of a man. Scars on his chin and nose, tired look in his eyes when he let his guard down when he was on his own, hair that sometimes had too much grease in when he lost track of the fact that people needed to wash. Arthur is rugged, an outlaw, and everything about his appearance reflected that.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	cursed

Arthur Morgan had a curse. As he stared at the fire, flames warming his face, he realized this. Everybody he thought he loved either died or left him. Maybe the gang would be better off without him, he mused, watching Dutch gleefully laugh as he sits with Hosea, the two grinning. Their happiness astounds him, sometimes. Had ever since they picked him up, a young, battered and angry orphan on the streets, they still managed to make him laugh despite everything. Ever since he was young, he realized. His mother dying at a young age, his father getting hanged, losing Eliza and Isaac, and finally, Mary left him. He wanted to propose to her. Jesus, he wanted to propose to her. Bought a fucking ring, too, he cursed at himself. 

Why would she even want somebody like him? Whenever he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a sad bastard. He mused to himself if beauty reflected the person, as all he could see when he looked at himself was a beast of a man. Scars on his chin and nose, tired look in his eyes when he let his guard down when he was on his own, hair that sometimes had too much grease in when he lost track of the fact that people needed to wash. Arthur is rugged, an outlaw, and everything about his appearance reflected that.

There's no easing the pain that thinking upon Eliza and Isaac brings him. He neglected them, and he wasn't there to protect them. It was his fault, and he accepted that. There were thousands of things he could have done better, he could have tried to be there more, could have told Dutch and Hosea, and just asked for some time off to see them instead of just disappearing every few months to give them some money. Maybe stay a few days, if he felt he had the time, and left. Dutch always insisted they had a good, but he wondered to himself if Arthur even applies to that, or if he's an outlier. 

Arthur's the workhorse, he's better off seen and not heard. He doesn't have the way with words that Hosea does, or the natural charisma of their leader. He doesn't command as well as Grimshaw does. Arthur's just a good shot, and good at intimidating, at best. Maybe he was doomed to be this way from birth, with a father that taught him how to thief better than any. By the age of 12, the law already had a good reason to dislike him. It's a good thing he doesn't believe in a God, not as Reverend does, as there would be no way to atone for his sins. Not fully. 

The jovial laughter in camp brought anger to Arthur's chest, and he chided himself that he was being petty. Just because he's upset doesn't mean the others can't be, right? If he just worked to be a better man, he might even enjoy the festivities. Leaning his elbow on his thigh, he rested his head in his hand and watched the fire. The warmth doesn't do anything to ease the feeling in his gut, the sort of sinking feeling. Honestly, Arthur found himself surprised he hasn't ended up dead, yet. 

It's easy to vividly recall the dark nights he spent on the streets, where Arthur shivered at the slightest of breeze, curled under thin, ragged sheets that likely wouldn't last him the winter. He stared at the sky, too skinny for his own good, and wondered what he did to deserve this. Why he deserved to live a life of difficulty, why he could watch the other kids in the town laugh and play together. He was lucky if he got somewhere to stay for the winter, and even then, he likely had to do manual labor for it. While other children got to actually have parents, and a stable roof to live under, all he got was an alleyway, the clothes on his hat, and his deceased father's hat. He wasn't sure why he kept going, after that. Maybe it was the last part of childhood innocence he had surging him forward, the plans he held. Grow up, have a child that lived a better life than he did. 

Now, he's a wanted man with a dead child and partner - not forgetting the partner he wanted to marry leaving him at the last minute for somebody else. 

Something kept Arthur pushing forward, and he couldn't lie that he didn't know what. He wasn't stupid enough to pretend he was anything other than an awful man, but he's still here. Thinking about where he went wrong. Maybe he should have just starved on the streets, another orphaned child that couldn't survive on his own, in the end. Maybe he shouldn't have gone with Dutch and Hosea, they might have even been better off without Arthur. Why would somebody want someone like himself? If he didn't work as diligently as he did, he wasn't even sure he'd still be here. Even Uncle had more of a purpose to be here then himself. 

As a chill began to settle in the air, Arthur looked up and glanced around the camp. Watching over the others, the smiles on their lips, and the happy expression in their eyes. If they look over at him, they clearly just assume it's Arthur being Arthur - he's quiet and reserved at times - and they look away. Some other day, he might have joined in their conversation. John seemed to be enjoying listening to the two, but he felt out of place in a nice situation like that. 

Arthur's purpose wasn't there to be a nice conversation, he knew that. He just wished, sometimes, he didn't stammer over his words as soon as he tried to explain what was wrong with him. Wished his instinct wasn't to immediately tell others that all was well, that he was just tired, or old. Wished he didn't have to use the journal as a crutch, as nothing but a bit of paper would want to listen to his problems. 

He longed, desperately, to be loved, but everybody left him, in the end. He just hoped that he at least had the gang for however long he lived. A group of people to look after and joke with, feign that he wasn't feeling the way he was. It was better than being alone, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> is this a vent fic for me?? maybe, im in an angst mood rn. been a stressful while, im so sorry i havent written for rdr2 in so long ahh. been an awful year for me - still an awful year, but hey what are vent fics for, right?  
> sorry if this isn't my best work, been dealing with a lot of shitty real life things, which sucks. i hope you're all doing okay!


End file.
